Chapter 9
Prev Chapter PART NINE It is a point which most all archaeologists agree upon, along with numerous prophets, philosophers, and ancient scriptures: that Tuzosia was once a lush and troppical region. Thousands of years ago Tuzosia was a veritable earthly paradise, sought by people from the world over for its peace and fecundity. Yet the onslaught of history – or perhaps something else entirely – left only a harsh, desert country in its wake. Could its people, too, have been dried of the glory that had once run through their veins? Can there be any other reason for such desolation in a time of such upheaval? Such were the thoughts of King Alexander Rex du Chienconaros as he strode through the deserted streets of the Tuzosian city, an enormous paintbrush-like staff in hand. Even those beggars and street urchins without the means to abandon their native land sought shelter now from the conflict erupting around them. The only two souls to accompany King Alex were his two body guards, a gun-toting American and a Mexican who kept knives strapped beneath his fraying poncho. He had met with and hired these men to defend him from any foes that might have followed him here, soon after entering this land. This was no feat; theirs was the only kind not in short supply here ever since rumors of that mysterious glowing power began to spread. The King had not bothered to learn the names of either man. He wondered if they had cared to remember his. Alex spotted signs of life in a nearby tavern and halted at once. “That’s far enough, gentlemen,” he announced. The King reached into his belt and produced two thick wads of bills, which he presented to each of his defenders, who stared in mild surprise at their pay. “You’ll find I’ve included the bonus we discussed in return for you not insulting my novelty paintbrush. The throne of Chienconaros thanks you for your services.” The American shook his head. “Now wait a damn minute,” he muttered, “we’re still miles and miles away from Hiskor! Aren’t we s’posed to be guardin’ you on your way to the… you know… this ‘AD’ stuff…?” The King’s expression betrayed nothing. “I said nothing of the sort,” he replied coolly. “If that was your true interest in undertaking this endeavor, I’m afraid you’ll have to make the last leg of the journey yourselves.” He gestured to the tavern. “You’d do well to quench your thirst before braving the long desert, I think,” he added politely. The two mercenaries glanced at each other. The Mexican simply shrugged. The King watched as they shuffled off towards the bar, and when he was sure they had disappeared within he hurried away into a dark alley. Alex allowed himself a long and painful sigh as he removed a canister from within his belt and screwed it into a hole hidden beneath the bristles of his staff. How had it come to this? He, the last heir to the throne of Chienconaros, traveling with bandits and rogues for protection... had he not been made a master in his nation’s ancient fighting style so many years ago? But he had vowed to leave the ways of violence behind him, after his father was assassinated and he was forced into exile… “O father!” he cried mournfully into the alley. “Your servants despised and murdered you because you were more a man of Art and Science than of Taxation and Law. We are a kingly people, a people to be devoured by our subjects for our kingly essence. Yet the world was too blind to know that we are also a race of soaring eagles, and that their royal meal was made a feathery feast only so that it could make softer pillows from their innards, upon which their children might rest.” When his nearly indecipherable yet heartfelt lament was complete, he went to work on loading his brush once more. Just like his father, he was a man of both art and science, and from the time of his exile it had been his passion to revolutionize both. Using what wealth and research his father had left behind, he began to explore not only new forms of artistic expression, but even unexplored ways of producing pigments. After years of experimentation he managed to combine all his knowledge and aspirations in this single tool… a scepter worthy of a King Artist. The unique item gave another click, and King Alex knew that he was ready. Kneeling on the cobbled alley road, he placed the tip of the brush to his forehead and pressed down on a well-concealed button. A sort of many-colored liquid sprang forth from within the tool, sliding across the body of the King, matching with great precision the curves and contours of his body. The liquid’s shades shifted for a time before stabilizing, matching the appearance of the surrounding area seamlessly. The invisible monarch hurried back to the Tavern, waiting for the door to swing open so that he could duck stealthily within. Once inside, Alex slowly rose to his feet, gripping the nearest flaking plaster wall with hands that became patterned in the same cracking beige. He glanced around at the clientele, seated at stools around the splintering tables of this dilapidated establishment. The barkeep might have been Tuzosian, but each of his customers seemed to hail from an entirely different corner of the world. A battered and visibly jaded man with dark glasses and a badge pinned upon his uniform sat alone next a half-empty bottle, and appearing to be silently crafting a plan; further towards the back a diminutive woman in the habit of a nun kept a great iron shield beside her stool as she sipped lemonade through a curly straw. The two disreputable characters that had so recently been in Alex’s employ already seemed quite at home here, and were found chatting together at a table over drinks. “But I figure he was smarter than he looked, yes?” said the Mexican. “He knew that ten thousand dollars was not enough to buy loyalty in a time and place such as this.” “Saves me a bullet, anyways,” the American replied after a long draft from a green-glass bottle. He shifted his eyes and lowered his voice. “Still… ten thousand is a lot of scratch for just guiding some jackass to a place where we was headed anyways, an’ for protecting him from ‘political enemies’ who never showed up. From the looks of things, the competition will get a lot stiffer from here on out, so if you want to jus’ back out now…” The Mexican shook his head slowly as the American spoke. “We are better than these mind games, I think,” he sharply replied. “We swore to split the AD fifty-fifty when we set out, Fairweather. I intend to keep my promise.” The gunslinger laughed briefly. “You’re a smart man, Xin,” he said, raising his bottle to take another swig of cool liquid. Though this conversation did not surprise King Alex, it did heighten his awareness of the obstacles ahead… and his thirst, for that matter. He sidled closer to the bar, finding several bottles of sparkling water sitting just behind the counter. The barkeep was distracted, collecting the bill of a dark-eyed man in a long coat. Alex reached out to swipe the much needed refreshment, whisking it swiftly beneath his invisible cape… too quickly. There was a loud crash of glass breaking. The barkeep wheeled around at the noise. Alex froze. He had moved in too hastily, and knocked one of the other bottles to the ground in the process. He sidestepped away, his heart racing, as the barkeep scratched his head in confusion. The King could not allow himself to be seen, because to be seen would place him in conflict with the mercenaries and opportunists swarming over this realm, forcing him to fight through them to obtain that coveted prize, the power that would help him take his works of art and technology even further. But he had vowed to lay that violent path behind him… hadn’t he? The man with the dark eyes was now making his way to the exit. Without a moment’s hesitation King Alex rushed behind him, hoping that he was only imagining a disbelieving stare coming from the man in the dark glasses as he did. He exhaled with relief as he stepped back outside. Free at last. “Stop right there!” The King nearly dropped the bottle he had procured in alarm. Surely this was it, he had been found out at last and would be forced to resort to bloodshed… but before he had time to deactivate his shroud of invisibility, he noticed the man in front of him lifting his arms slowly into the air. Who had the voice been referring to, anyway? He peered over the other man’s shoulder to see the source of the shouted command. A woman wearing an elegant orange dress and a peculiar pointed hat was keeping a large automatic weapon trained on the man’s chest. “Zdyne, isn’t it?” the woman asked. Alex gathered from her accent that she hailed from Britain. “Yes, that’s right, Zdyne… no sudden moves. Shall we take a walk, then?” She jerked the gun slightly towards the road behind her, and Zdyne began to slowly follow in her wake. King Alex realized that this was the perfect time to flee from the town, to get a head start on all these villainous cutthroats and reach his goal without being noticed… yet he felt something, something ancient and ineffable deep within him, compelling him to follow these two. So the King followed, making sure to keep just enough distance to avoid detection. “That’s a nice Halloween costume you’ve got there, miss,” Zdyne remarked in a gravelly voice. “You know, I don’t believe I caught your name. Strange that you know mine…” “I’ve been keeping an eye on you for some time now,” the gun-toting woman replied. “Ever since I saw what you’re wearing around your neck.” “What, this?” said Zdyne, his dark eyes turning down towards the pendant hanging over his chest. Alex couldn’t quite make out the symbol engraved upon it from the distance at which he was walking beside them, but thought it looked quite like a skull. “This was just a gift from my boss…” “Your boss!” she cried incredulously. She stopped beside an empty alleyway, and gestured for Zdyne to step inside. “For your information, I am Raygirl, Gun Sorceress and High Baroness of the Order of the Light Sabbath, and I am the sworn opponent of your... your new ‘boss’, as all decent humans should be! Now tell me all you know about the Dark Sorcerer… tell me how you came to call him master.” Zdyne sighed. “Listen, I… don’t really understand it myself. I used to be a high-profile bounty hunter, you see. Five years ago, the American government hired me to find a certain Temple, which I’ve since learned was the home of the substance folks are calling ‘AD’.” He paused to sadly shake his head. “I failed. The desert took me just as I neared where I was sure the entrance to the Hiskor Temple would be, and, well… I died.” Raygirl’s lips tightened. “I see… the Dark Sorcerer brought you back from the dead to work for him, then?” “I guess he did,” Zdyne answered, lowering his arms slightly. “All I know is that I woke up at the feet of some old guy, who said the door to the spirit realm had opened enough to bring me back, and that if I brought him the glowing power that was hidden in the Temple of Hiskor he would make it so that I’d stay here even after that door was sealed.” “But he’s using you as a pawn, Zdyne!” Raygirl cried, shaking a gloved fist in the air. “We’ve been fighting against him for decades, and I assure you, all he cares about is getting more power and anything that can help him get it! First he corrupted one of those Sentinel demon-spawns, now he’s manipulating a ghost of someone who’s nearly been to the Temple gates… you, I mean. He’s getting you to do his dirty work so that…” she stopped mid-sentence and narrowed her eyes, as though she suddenly detected something amiss. King Alex tightened his grip on his staff, but she didn’t look in his direction. Instead she turned her gaze to Zdyne’s coat. “Do you… have something in your pocket?” she asked slowly. “No, I don’t think so,” Zdyne answered, now lowering a hand into the pocket in question and rummaging around. “Here, let me check…” Raygirl shouted in protest, tightening her grip on the trigger of her gun, but she was too late. The resurrected warrior produced a small green shard of crystal from his pocket, which he clenched tightly in his fist. A grey aura burst from his body, and he barreled towards the sorceress with lightning speed, dodging the spray of bullets she fired at him in a series of wild acrobatic maneuvers. He segued from an uncanny flip into a mighty kick to his opponent’s midriff, sending her flying into the wall, dazed and winded. The gun fell to the ground. Zdyne kicked it away. Raygirl shook herself from her stupor and stared up at the still glowing Zdyne, who pulled a saber from his belt and pointed it at her throat. “Must’ve fished out this little souvenir of mine before you started on my trail,” he whispered with a wry grin. “You know, you may be right, Raygirl. I might just be a pawn in things I don’t fully understand. All I know is that my life hangs in the balance of me finding this ‘AD’… and that’s not something I take lightly.” He squinted at the sorceress lying crumpled at his feet… her lips were moving. “Hey, what are you…?” he began, but he was cut off as a shot fired abruptly into his shoulder. The aura produced by the fragment he was holding seemed to alter the bullet’s trajectory enough to result in only a minor wound, but this seemed to exhaust the last of its power, and the gray glow faded. He glanced backwards and found an ethereal, disembodied fist gripping Raygirl’s discarded gun. The baroness herself meanwhile produced two handguns from holsters at her side, and began firing upon Zdyne once more. King Alex watched as the duel continued, in awe at the grace and speed with which the rivals clashed. He felt a strange understanding washing over him, revitalizing a soul that had been dry for too long, deadened by sentimental ideals. “There can be no revolution without death,” he whispered to himself. The man who had killed his father realized this… and because of this Alex had forbidden himself to reach the same conclusion. But he knew now that until he embraced this knowledge, he would be doomed to do no more than retrace the footsteps left behind by his father’s research until the end of time. He had sought this strange new power, this… ‘AD’, as it was known among street toughs and vagabonds, in the interest of furthering his studies in art and science. Only through this newfound clarity could he understand the true potential of such a substance. In his mind he saw himself storming the castles of his ancestors, reclaiming his nation in the name of enlightenment and peace... for why should he not use righteous violence to correct violent injustice? Yes, there were no limits to the possibilities… but first he would need to commit to the fact that he had not simply entered a race. He had entered a tournament. The King Artist pressed a button on his staff, and his invisible cocoon shattered, crumbling to the pavement in miniscule colored flecks. The two combatants halted their struggle to turn and face this appearing stranger. Alex deftly slashed at the air in front of him with his colossal brush, as though drawing a stroke upon an immaterial easel. Before his targets knew what was happening, a widening wave of solid color swept them both off their feet. Which of these warriors, Alex wondered, should be the first to fall before him? Which should be granted the honor of becoming the first rung he stepped upon in his ascent to ultimate power? “Prepare yourselves, AD fighters,” King Alexander cried. “The tournament is at hand!” THE BEGINNING